


Of Lovers and Beekeepers

by novemberhush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because procrastination could be my middle name, But my mum went with Amanda instead, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Much too sticky and messy, Mutual Pining, Probably a wise decision, Random facts about St. Valentine, Some ideas for honey that I wouldn't recommend implementing in real life, That I wrote for Valentine's Day but am only getting around to posting here now, but hey, fluffy nonsense, you do you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 19:24:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10542969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novemberhush/pseuds/novemberhush
Summary: How do you make the world's most observant, but somehow most oblivious, man see that you're in love with him? Well, with a little help from the patron saint of lovers and beekeepers, of course.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So I posted this over on tumblr for Valentine's Day, for my friend over there who goes by whereisjawn, but like I said in the tags I'm great at putting off until April what I should have done in February. Anyway, if you can get over the jolt of a fic out of time, I hope you'll give it a go. All characters herein remain the intellectual property of someone who isn't me, unfortunately. Otherwise, John and Sherlock would be married by now and every day would be their own Pride parade. :-)

  
Sherlock supposed if a fleeing suspect _had_ to shove you headfirst into a window display then there were worse items to land on than a clutch of soft cuddly toys. Even if half of Scotland Yard did seem to think it was hilarious to tell him if he went down to the woods today he’d be sure of a big surprise. He had no idea what they were raving about, but it was all very droll, he was sure.

  
But there was something about these particular teddy bears that caught his eye. Some had big red hearts stitched into their fur, or held between their paws, while others wore little jumpers with things like ‘I love you’ or ‘I can’t BEAR to be without you’ emblazoned on them. They didn’t seem the usual fare for children’s toys. And then he realised that they weren’t even in a toy shop. They had chased the suspect into what purported to be a greetings card shop, but like most of them nowadays it sold various other items as well.

  
A quick glance around and Sherlock was struck by just how _red_ everything was. It was everywhere, from the huge display of cards set up right at the front of the shop to the heart-shaped helium balloons floating about overhead to the fake plastic roses in a basket to the right of the door. His eye settled on the multitude of cards and the word ‘Valentine’ jumped out at him. As everything fell neatly into place he couldn’t help the annoyed tut that slipped from his lips.  
  
“What’s wrong with you now, then?” John’s voice spoke up from behind him, pulling him out of his thoughts.

  
With an expansive wave of his hand Sherlock gestured at the items around them.

  
“This! All this … tat! A load of sentimental claptrap and waste of money, that’s what it is! A day supposed to be dedicated to marking the life of a man so extraordinary that one of the giants of organised religion deigned to canonise him and it’s become mired in corporate greed! Taken over and commercialised by the card manufacturers and the toy makers and the florists and the … whatnot…”

  
As quickly as it had begun his little rant petered out, the amused look on John’s face pulling him up short.

  
“What?” Sherlock demanded. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  
John grinned wider and shook his head. “I just never thought I’d see the day, that’s all.”

  
“John, you’re being even more idiotic than usual and I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re on about. Please explain yourself.” Sherlock really didn’t know what John found so amusing, and Sherlock didn’t like not knowing something.

  
“I never thought I’d see the day Sherlock Holmes got upset at the commercialisation of a day set aside to honour the patron saint of love and lovers, that’s all. Seems a bit … well, a bit sentimental for you, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  
Sherlock barked out a laugh that sent a confused look skittering across John’s face.

  
“Oh, John. My poor, simple, idiotic John…”

  
The look of confusion turned to one of annoyance, long-suffering patience and just a hint of hurt.

  
“I couldn’t give two hoots about _love_ and _lovers_ and all that nonsense! I’m not talking about St. Valentine as the patron saint of those things! I’m talking about him in his other capacity!”

  
“His other capacity?” And the confused look was back again.

  
“Yes! As the patron saint of beekeeping and beekeepers! Everyone always forgets the beekeepers!”

  
“The … _what_?” John appeared to be thoroughly bewildered by this turn in the conversation.

  
“Oh, for pity’s sake! Surely you’re aware that many saints don’t just have one area of patronage?”

  
John nodded dutifully, but Sherlock wasn’t entirely convinced he _had_ known that.

  
“Well, St. Valentine happens to be the patron saint of all this rubbish,” Sherlock said, indicating the various wares on display once again, “but also beekeeping. Amongst other things.”

  
“Other things?” John echoed.

  
“Epilepsy and plague also fall under his patronage. And young people and travellers. And he’s not the only patron saint of beekeeping, of course. There are others, but he’s by far the most well-known. Or at least I thought he was. I find myself questioning that belief now, given your obvious ignorance on the subject.”

  
“Yes, well, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not as well versed as you in the bloody patron saints of plague and love and…” John began, through gritted teeth.

  
“One and the same. Quite fitting really, when you think about it,” Sherlock interrupted.

  
“What??” John was rapidly losing patience now.

  
“Plague and love. Their patron saint is one and the same. Rather fitting that love, the scourge of rational thought and the death of reason, should share a patron saint with plague.”

  
“Jesus, that’s a bit bleak even for you, isn’t it?” John’s expression was one of unaccountable sadness now.

  
“Is it?” Sherlock shrugged, trying very hard to ignore that look on John’s face and not being terribly successful. “Well, never mind that now. We may have caught the actual murderer, but his accomplice is still at large. Come along, John! We still have work to do!”

  
And with that Sherlock turned on his heel and flounced out of the shop, leaving a quiet John to sigh and ask himself once again just why he had to fall in love with the world’s most observant and yet simultaneously most oblivious man. He had hoped that this year he could finally declare his feelings for Sherlock over a romantic dinner for two on Valentine’s Night, but the whole idea seemed pointless now in the face of Sherlock’s apparently absolute rejection of anything even remotely resembling romantic love.

  
Making a mental note to cancel the reservation he’d made for Angelo’s on the night in question, John's eye happened upon a little daub of yellow and black hidden amongst the red sea of cards…

  
Two weeks later, Valentine’s Day dawned bright and early, but Sherlock didn’t surface before noon, having sat up half the night before arguing with someone on the internet who had rejected his claim of being able to identify and distinguish between 243 different types of ash. More fool them.

  
Wandering into the kitchen in nothing more than a bed sheet he stumbled past the kitchen table, almost missing what sat atop it and which definitely hadn’t been there last night. Taking a step back he took in exactly what it was that had caught his attention. A white envelope with his name on it and a jar of his favourite, extortionately expensive organic honey with a little red bow tied around it.

  
Tentatively reaching out for the envelope Sherlock realised immediately the handwriting on the front was John’s.

  
“John?” Sherlock called out instinctively, but to no avail. The only response was resounding silence. He was sure John had said he wasn’t working today and he was usually up before now when they hadn't been out late working a case the night before, but of course he could have gone out, Sherlock reasoned.

  
Something tugged at the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t quite get a grip on it. This meant something, but he didn’t know what. Then a voice suspiciously like John’s huffed in his head, _well, you could just open the bloody thing and find out._

  
Slipping a pale, slender finger under the tab of the envelope Sherlock took a deep breath and did just that. Inside was a small card of some sort. Gently teasing it from the envelope, Sherlock felt all the breath leave his body as he took in exactly what it was he held in his hand. His first Valentine’s card.

  
On the front was a picture of a bee that had just traced the shape of a heart in the air and inside the heart were the words, ‘Bee Mine?’.

  
“Everyone always forgets the beekeepers.”

  
Sherlock started at the voice. He hadn’t heard John come in over the sound of his own heart beating, louder and harder than ever before.

  
“Wha … what?” he managed to stutter, suddenly aware that he was trembling all over. He suspected it didn’t have anything to do with being cold, despite his lack of attire.

  
“You said everyone always forgets the beekeepers. That everyone associates this day with love and lovers, but not you. To you it’s a day to honour the noble art of beekeeping. And then I saw that card and I thought, well, why can’t it be both? Why can’t this day be about lovers and beekeepers and you and me and I love you and I didn’t know how else to tell you but with this stupid card, with its stupid pun, and, oh _God_ , if the answer’s no, just tell me now, Sherlock, and let me crawl away to curl up in a ball and die of disappointment and embarrassment somewhere, and, Christ, I can’t seem to stop talking and maybe it’s madness to even think that you could possibly love me too, but…”

  
John didn’t get any further than that because he was cut off by the wonderful sensation of Sherlock’s lips on his and Sherlock’s hands cradling his face and his own arms coming up to wind around Sherlock’s waist.

  
“‘When love is not madness, it is not love’,” Sherlock whispered against his lips when they came up for air again.

  
“What?” John whispered back, dazed from all the knowledge he now possessed. What Sherlock tasted like. What his lips felt like against John’s. How he felt in John’s arms. How he looked when he’d just been thoroughly and expertly kissed. By John. All things John had feared he would never know.

  
“Something some poet or other once said.”

  
“Oh.”

  
“Yes. Oh.”

  
“So … can I take it this means you love me too, then? That you do in fact consent to ‘bee’ mine?”

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite contain the smile threatening to break out across his face. John didn’t miss it.

  
Nipping at Sherlock’s bottom lip again he repeated his question. “Well? Do you?”

  
Sherlock merely nodded, not trusting his own voice right now.

  
“Good,” John grinned, before the grin faltered slightly as something else Sherlock had said came back to him.

  
“What is it, John?” Sherlock entreated, suddenly afraid John had changed his mind.

  
“Well, it’s just … what about all that stuff you said about love being the death of reason and all? You sounded like you meant that.”

  
“I did.”

  
John frowned. “But reason and logic and rational thought are what you live for so doesn’t that mean you don’t really want this? Don’t want _me_?”

  
“Oh, John, you really are an idiot, aren’t you?”

  
John’s eyebrows shot up, but Sherlock simply shushed him and pulled him closer. “But you’re my idiot.”

  
“Sherlock, wha …”

  
“‘All of our reasoning ends in surrender to feeling’, John. Somebody else once said that, and he was quite right, of course.”

  
“But …”

  
“But, nothing. I’ve been surrendering to this feeling from the moment we met. Now, shut up and kiss me again and never doubt that I want this. Want _you_.”

  
John didn’t need telling twice. When they broke apart to breathe again, both panting and needy, he rasped out, “I made us a reservation for dinner at Angelo’s tonight.”

  
“Cancel it.”

  
“What? Why?”

  
“Because,” Sherlock smirked, dropping his voice seductively, “it’s Valentine’s Day, we have a full jar of honey, and I intend licking it from every part of your body I possibly can. We’re both going to get very sticky and I have a feeling it’s going to take all day and all night to get clean again. We may even have to shower together.”

  
John swallowed before replying, “Oh God, yes.”

  
“Well, Valentine is the patron saint of beekeeping. It seems only right we spend the day honouring that.”

  
“Thank God for the beekeepers,” John murmured, tongue darting out to wet his lips in a way Sherlock found _most_ distracting.

  
“Thank God for the beekeepers,” Sherlock agreed fervently. “Everyone always forgets the beekeepers.”

  
“Not everyone, Sherlock. Not everyone. Now, why don’t we go open that honey, hmm?”

  
“With pleasure. Happy Valentine’s Day, John.”

  
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock, my love. Now, let’s see about getting you out of that sheet…”

 

* * *

_When love is not madness, it is not love_ \- Pedro Calderón de la Barca

  
_All of our reasoning ends in surrender to feeling_ \- Blaise Pascal

  
_If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise … because today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic -_  John W. Bratton & Jimmy Kennedy

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you have it. I hope this brightened up your day a little, if nothing else. Feel free to come say hi in the comments or over on tumblr, where I'm also known as novemberhush. I'm always glad to hear from you. xxx


End file.
